


Arch

by Nekoian



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Gen, Superheroes, Supervillains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-06 22:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17353910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekoian/pseuds/Nekoian
Summary: A young heroine attempts to avenge the death of her father but finds out she might not have what it takes to do so.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonlighten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/gifts).



> A Christmas gift for my friend Moonlighten, inspired vaguely by their masquerade tale. Wishing everyone a happy new year and hoping to get a few gift works out soon. More of this fic should be posted...eventually. With thanks to Lost_hitsu for plying my fragile ego with praise before I posted it up.

Olivia is staring out the window of the train as it hurtles back towards the city, raindrops sliding sideways as each tree and large animal flickers past. Fields and hills are damp; the sky sodden from unshed tears. Head rested on the her hand, elbow rooted to the table with eyes drawn to all who pass, in case they recognise her and tattle to her stepfather (whether or not he’d respond is a different matter, she’s barely seen since the funeral ended.) 

Her father was a celebrity, Powerman, the most famous superhero in the UK, she’d expected to be recognised as his daughter even if every effort has been made to keep her face out of the media. Hell, the country should still be in mourning over the loss of him, yet, his face is absent from the front-page of the paper being held up by the man opposite her. Replaced by Football results and mealy mouthed politicians, that’s what Papa calls them.

The tannoy declares that the train will arrive soon and she feels a shiver of excitement through her whole body, making her twitch, she wants to punch Kirkland. That’ll teach that glorified mobster for killing her daddy, aye, it’ll be the last lesson he ever gets, because he’ll be dead seconds after he learns it. 

A pleasing thought. 

She gets off the train with her bag slung over her back, the many keyrings attached to the zippers rattle together. Places in the UK she's been. Cute animals and pompoms. A penknife she can never flick open hangs beside a grubby Pikachu. Most are images of Powerman and declarations of what a good daughter she is. Was.

Olivia pauses at the main doors when her phone begins to vibrate in her breast pocket. She studies the name of the caller; considers answering; it’s Papa and if he’s aware of her absence he'll be in a state of brainless anxiety and seething rage. A small part of her wants to answer and let him find out shes out here fighting for justice, but she hopes he'll not suspect a thing, that she can get back on the train and forget the whole caper because bravado can only take a girl so far. 

The image of her daddy on her phones background strengthens her resolve and the phone stops ringing. The thing to remember is that Daddy deserves better than a funeral with an empty coffin and his final fight to be world news for a day then to be forgotten. 

Olivia sends her Papa a vague text of reassurance before opening up the map application and beginning to type. The Kirkland family have always been very open about their location, being very powerful makes them smug. Daddy has always said that being smug is the first step to villainy. 

Papa says because of money, not smugness, the general public don’t know what they’re really like. Easier to hide in plain view and bury all the scandal behind big business and thugs. Whichever of her fathers is correct she can rely on Papa to have accurate information. He started his career writing an agony aunt section in the local paper before working his way to fashion spreads and food critique before doing another type of spreading and becoming a PR agent to the most powerful hero of the era. The two of them together have been working together for years to sink their teeth into the necks of the Kirkland family. Papa, apparently, had a nose for real journalism despite his mediocre interests because the file she’d dug out of the drawer in their flats study is several inches thick and dates back well into the mid eighties. There was more, much more, but she can only read so much.

According to this file the Kirkland family residence is one of the big manors near the outskirts of London and is difficult to get to using public transport. She knows this because whoever Papa got the information from was offended enough to make several long diatribes about it in the margin and titled that section as ‘purple pantaloons’ using purple ink. 

Papa seemed as baffled about this as Olivia did as noted by his liberal use of question marks, which made her feel less stupid even if confusion is still at an all-time high. At any rate the information provided had not factored in Google’s ability to plot a course anywhere on the planet and Olivia discovers she can use two buses and some leg power to get where she needs to go. 

She will, however, need some money for bus fare so locating a bank is the first order of business. Except that it isn’t. 

She needs to pee.

\--

The phone being silent had seemed like a blessing that would never arrive when Alain had been rushed off his feet in the weeks since Angus passed away, yet, now he is faced with his silent maw of an office. Its teeth are the numerous awards lining shelves and hung on walls, its jaw the door that creaks from lack of oil and has been locked up. Alain had imagined the tongue of the beast was his computers flashing cursor as it pants without end in the flawless white void of a blank document. The tongue was him all along. Dry and gasping for breath now that the flow of work has ceased and there’s nothing left to drink, no distractions. He had presumed to just keep writing because that is what he does. There’s usually a fire in his fingers when he’s faced with a keyboard. Today, however, he can find nothing. He wishes he could selfishly forget about Angus as he used to when he was younger. 

Alain sighs as he tips back his coffee mug only to discover it is already empty, nothing but a faint residue pressed onto the edge like the distracted kiss he'd given Angus the last time he'd walked out the door. 

The word processor is closed with one thoughtless movement. Replaced by the news website showing video of his husbands final battle. One of Kirkland's hooded minions (impossible go figure out who with this level of distortion but he has his suspjcions) had summoned a hellhound-like beast made of flames in order to defend themselves after a robbery from the museum (item undisclosed) the beast had almost roasted an entire bus load of high school students when the handler had lost control of it. Angus stands burned and blistered before its inferno of a body. The video thankfully stops before he’s swallowed up by it, leaving nothing but a black smear five hundred feet in diameter, charred bone fragments and some shattered quartz. 

Olivia had been watching the live broadcast of this, confident that her Dad would appear again, wring the thief’s neck and return the stolen item to weeping members of academia before striding home and complaining that Alain's dinner portions were far too small for a hero and getting a beer from the fridge that tastes like sewer water. Same as always.

The sound of the fridge getting slammed shut makes Alain perk up, quickly disappointed to see it was just the neighbour closing his boot. The shitty beer will remain. 

He closes the browser and stands, wobbling like a baby calf and with eyes threatening to sting with tears he hasn’t been able to shed. It’s far too late to cry; that is for funerals and he'd been too numb to cry at that. Alain rests his hand on the drawer he keeps his many files in, hoping to sift through it again and learn...something. Anything. He drags his hand back as he takes a deep breath. He has more important things to do. His hand goes through his short greasy hair, then works on getting a cigarette into his mouth and flicking at his pearl lighter. 

He calls Olivia’s name several times, drifting into her usual haunts. Kitchen, living room, bedroom and feels his heart thump wildly at her absence. He calls her using his phone, blood rising when no response comes. 

Seconds later a text arrives [staying with Brani sorry I didn’t say so. Distracted. Love u.]

Alain's heart moves back to his chest from its position in his throat and slows. He should have known she’d not do anything stupid. He lights his cigarette and wanders into the kitchen, opening the fridge door and lifting the awful, dreadful beer bottle. He's tempted to drink it. He would and then laugh about how crap it is, say he'd prefer a white wine; but he doesn’t. 

The beer isn’t his. There's nobody to laugh with.

 

\--

Olivia lingers at the gate entrance, high white walls and tightly packed railings shielding her view of the grounds and large house she can just about make out in the far distance. Its the same one as the blurry photographs shed been looking at earlier. She’d glanced over the files while on the bus and known she was more than prepared enough to storm in there and demolish everyone inside. Daddy would just punch through the gates and make a dry quip about his arrival before every smart person laid down arms and ran off leaving Whatever idiots remained to get a lesson in risk assessment. 

When she draws back her first and strikes the metal, however, she is rewarded not with a superhuman display of strength instead theres little more than a dull and hollow thud. Its begun to drizzle, a chill sets into the air that makes her dark Auburn hair stick around her eyes. Her short curls begin to corkscrew and drip at the ends. Not very heroic, 

She strikes again, stinging pain making her wince backwards. A bloodless gash is torn into her knuckles and makes her eyes stream with tears that she wipes away with her injured hands. Lesson one: if you must cry then your tears are for sanitising the wound. 

A rumble from the engine of a car stops her from trying a third time, she ducks into a hedge and watches as a very old looking car with headlights that make it look startled pulls up at the gate; which opens after a long feeling pause, allowing the car to grumble in. Its silver and resembles the kind of car you’d see at a wedding, with ribbon adorning its front, the kind of car only a chauffeur would drive; or a huge prat. 

With her pulse thudding in her ears Olivia tumbles through the closing gap of the gate and skitters on the stones as she makes a slippery dive for the cover of a tree. She reimagines the memory so that she looked awesomely cool and grins at the amendment. 

The car ambles over to the large house and pauses near a set of stone steps that lead to an arched doorway. The house walls are white, very high and very impressive. There's a cheerful looking lion statue spitting water into a fountain nearby and a wide array of flowering bushes and flowerbeds. It’s not exactly what she imagined a villains lair would look like. She had imagined more lightening and lasers. There are various topiaries in the shapes of animals lining the path to a pond where various reeds and grasses plume around the armless, headless marble figure of a woman. There appears to be a single depressed swan lingering amidst the algae as though awaiting a hated rival.

A man wearing a sweater-vest and trousers that have sharp creases ironed into them emerges from the car and opens the door for two others, one very old in a thick military looking coat and the other a teenager like herself (only much taller) she amends this to Kirkland and Anonymous, no teens feature in Papa’s notes. Evil old Kirkland lives with his three sinister grandsons and at some point a granddaughter of currently unknown location; last known to be on some shitty little island. Probably an evil island. For evil people.

The men stand and chat with very little animation, one of them makes a feeble motion towards the pond before shrinking away from the old man. His movement brings back memories of her Daddy flinching away from blazing hot flames bursting out of the back of a dogs skull, a tongue made of fire panting in a paradoxical attempt to cool down, hackles of smoke and a collar of stones. In her memory the dog twists around to face Daddy while a young man scrambles backwards to escape its attention. The monster pauses as its hooded master raises a hand. There's uncontrolled fire and an echoed scream of pain. Then nothing. 

Her breath speeds up, lip quivering as her feet drag her forwards from tree to bush to shadow, flanked by the memories of fire and smoke and that awful grinning skull. Her gait quickens, close enough now to hear words of the conversation, the familiar blond man in the sweater-vest rubs at his eyes, peers upwards at the teenager and says; “I'm sorry you lost your dogs bones, alright?”

Her movement ceases, focusing on the teenager who glares at the ground and rolls his eyes. The world takes a breath, yanks up it’s trousers and changes imperceptibly. She's just been presented with a new target. 

Steam seems to sizzle off her as she powers forward, fists clenched tight into painful knots. Her insides are roiling and churning as she breaks into a run, her feet connect with the roof of the car, making a painful creaking noise, three startled faces try to look at her but can’t keep up, she dives, fist aimed at the teenagers skull, she’ll shatter it. 

The boys hands fly up and her own hits something hard, a barrier glimmers into view briefly before fading. The world spins, her hand hits the silver of the car. Spittle drips down her chin, a fog lifts, her rage giving way to the pain in her chest and the snug wet pressure closed around her left hand. Its wedged into a hole of cratered metal and oil and petrol. She yanks it free and feels blood join the mix, the wound begins to burn. 

Lesson two; pain is an illusion. 

She slings her fist back around, hoping to drive it into Her foe's ribs, her blood smears against a solid wall of light which dissipates, leaving large drops of blood and fuel hanging in the air before falling to the earth. 

“What the fuck!” The boy says with near comical softness. 

Olivia, infuriated, drives her fist forward again. The air booms with energy but the mysterious wall throws her backwards. Vomit stings her throat, “you killed my Dad,” she explains in a loud mumble, expecting him to laugh manically and begin to monologue about how much he enjoyed doing it. 

“What?” he asks instead, his eyes wide and his body trembling. His hands are raised in a mixture of self defence and surrender. 

“My Dad was called Powerman, you killed him,” she raises her voice, trying to talk slowly, but making speeches seems so much easier for the heroes in films, “ , so let me hit you!” her fist smashes into the wall again. She screams. Tries again. Same result.

“That’s impossible. Powerman didn't have children,” the blond man says with a jittery laugh, “right grandfather?” 

Olivia swallows the acid that’s collected in her mouth and looks towards the two older men, meeting the gaze of the elder of the two. Her blood runs cold as he narrows his hollow sunken eyes at her. He looks like a plain old granddaddy from a television show, yet he makes a cold sweat burst out of her. She trembles despite every effort to hold it in

“How should I know?” the old mans eyes study her, his brows pinching together “Where is Alasdair when we need him? She appears to have destroyed your Bentley,” He laughs, “and you only just finished fixing it. I recommend we get rid of this young lady before she does any more damage.”

“You're a villain,” Olivia tells the old mans retreating back, making him pause, “I know all about you. You’re all awful!” a tear slips down her cheek, she scrubs it away. 

“We might be villains, young lady. We might not. But this is still private property and you just smashed up my grandsons very expensive car. I think it would be best if you left before I call the police.”

“You killed my Dad!” the two younger men wince, the older man turning back towards her, stepping closer. He smells funny. Like medicine and corked wine and tobacco. His fat frame creaks as he slips his silver lighter from his pocket.

“I didn't kill your Father,” the old man smiles and glances in the teenagers direction, “but somebody did, I suppose. I wonder who it could have been.”

He strides away from her, pausing beside the blond man and smiling at him as he inserts a large brown cigarette into his mouth and lights it, “Arthur, get your arse in gear and call Alasdair to get rid of her. Maybe he'll do something right. That'd make a nice change, wouldn’t it? Oh, and tell him to give the girl my condolences.”

“Right away,” Arthur swallows hard and pulls out a phone, fingers stabbing hard at the screen, “Michael, you get inside too.”

Olivia looks toward the tall teenager again, he regards her with a closed off expression then takes off after his grandfather with long strides. It must have been him, she decides, whoever was wearing that hood was slim; he looks scrawny enough that she could ram some graphite up his arse and call him a pencil. 

Beating a tactical retreat seems like the best option, yet when she turns the entire world spins into a blur of dark colours, she flops onto her knees, startled by the blood that’s clotted up on her wrist. More than that, there’s a crumpled mess where the car had once sat, its roof has caved in like an elephant tried to use it to reach a high shelf, one of the doors has popped loose, while most of the bonnet has been torn open. 

It still looks startled, but now it also looks terribly sad. 

\--

Arthur paces back and forth across the drawing room floor in front of the tall shelves of books. Perhaps it’s the potential of knowledge and expansion of his mind that soothes him. When he was at university he would often stride along the shelves and regard their spines and take deep breaths of the papers musk. He’d like to pretend it's because he's a true academic but the lizard part of his brain would accuse him of lying. Arthur would never linger in the sections about history, magic and the occult even though he was studying them. No, Arthur knows he hid with the other books because grandfather had no interest in reading them, grandfather has never touched a novel written by a woman and thus stays away from them. Mums treasured collection is mostly a hodgepodge of Bronte and Austin and stored here simply because they’re all very rare and make a decent display to anyone who might happen to be impressed by such things. They’re too expensive to actually read though. They do however act as a nice buffering zone between Arthur and his grandfather. 

A copy of wuthering heights nearly tempts him into pulling it out, it’s one of the illustrated editions mum was sent signed from the artist. The same artist who later married her and the same one who tried to make off with the family fortune and mysteriously wrapped his car around a tree without setting off the airbag. He’s also the man who sired Michael, who’s now got his feet curled up on the red and gold Ronald Phillips chair with hot chocolate and a pale face. 

“When did you learn to summon force fields?” Arthur is glad of Michael’s onset of talent, having almost gotten his brains bashed in by some lunatic wearing a hot-pink pleather jacket and a skirt her parents would likely be horrified by. 

Michael has never shown interest, nor aptitude, for the family business before so where it might have come from is a mystery. The mystery will remain because Michael merely shrugs and drinks from his mug. Arthur decides he must have learned from example and let’s lets himself take credit for such good tutalidge. Who else could possibly have shown him?

“I wonder if Alasdair has gotten rid of her yet,” Arthur would normally doubt his eldest brothers ability to find his own arse with both hands, but he does hope to be wrong in this case. The last thing they need are random supers launching themselves headlong into the manor grounds. Especially now, with grandfather watching his every move.

Michael nods, remaining silent as he contemplates the inside of his Kirkland Industries branded mug. 

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he's asked five times in the past hour because it seems the appropriate thing to say, even if Michael answers with nothing but a nod for a fifth time. 

Arthur sighs, “I can’t believe that little monster destroyed my car. My father gave her to me. I imagine the chassis is beyond repair.”

“She said her Dad died,” Michael sets his mug aside and curls his arms around his knees, “that I killed him.”

“Clearly a lunatic,” Arthur coughs, purposefully avoiding Michael’s gaze by pulling wuthering heights off the shelf and opening to a random page “I hope Alasdair has sorted it out.” Arthur perks up, swiftly shoving the book back into place just as Grandfather lumbers into the room, regards both his grandsons with calculated indifference and then sits himself on his favourite chair, where he begins to fill his pipe with tobacco, “be a good lad and pour me a brandy,” he says with a motion towards the drinks cabinet. 

Arthur’s hand always shakes when he pours alcohol of any kind, the decanter clatters against the glass. The smell makes his stomach lunge sideways, like rancid raisins and de-icer got into bed together and never left, it combines with the smell of lit tobacco, his nostrils welcome that smell at least. Its warm and herby and reminds him of his father. He hands the brandy over as quickly as he can, making sure to leave the decanter on the antique table at his grandfathers side where he can easily refill it himself.

“By the way, Arthur,” Grandfather puffs at his pipe, he seems almost to smile, “I want you out of the main bedroom. Move Michael in there instead.”

“But--" Arthur feels his eye twitch, he'd half expected to be cast out from his bedroom, which is a status symbol more than a place to lay your head. He’d assumed he'd lose it to Alasdair (the golden child.) While Arthur has been trying his best to maintain the position of favourite but recently it’s been more difficult to do, with Powerman’s demise being the shambles that it was. Arthur’s stomach rolls over again when he thinks about all that happened earlier. Such a mess he's in. 

“Make sure I'm not disturbed, I have important calls to make. Oh and do get what’s left of your car scraped off the driveway.” Grandfather makes a dismissive gesture with his hands, “terrible mess, can’t let guests get the wrong idea.”

Arthur nods, shepherding Michael out of the room, pausing to glance at their grandfather who sits in a growing fog of smoke as he swirls the golden liquid around.

Grandfather never has house guests.


	2. 2

Olivia has heard the old cliché of having legs that feel like the wobbly little legs of a new-born lamb, and she thinks now she understands it, having never before felt the intense fatigue she does now, with her legs stinging from gravel and her stomach feeling like a whirlpool has formed in it; sucking all the energy out of her body while filling her with an unfillable nausea. 

When she attempts to stand she tips backwards onto her backside with a heavy noise that turns into the scrabble of hands and feet seeking purchase when she hears the heavy fall of feet that are soon close enough that she can trace the legs up towards a blurry face that swims into focus when she strains. A man with short dark hair and a strong jaw that’s housing a pinched mouth and uneven stubble. 

She snatches her skirt and tugs it between her legs for modesty, a movement that shatters the stoic expression of the man into one of embarrassment.

“Did you do this to our brother's car?” the man asks in a conversational tone then aims his brow at the tattered old machine.

“Poor Art, all his work wasted.” Another voice says it belongs to a chubby little man who looks a bit like a lawyer in his brown jacket and browner trousers. 

“I think granddad is having a laugh, look at who they say did this." The taller man turns his attention to Olivia and asks, "did our grandfather pay you to take the blame for this?” 

“Doesn't sound much like a grandfather,” Brown lawyer with the frizzy hair steps closer, takes hold of Olivia’s wounded hand, “this cut looks deep, we should get you some medical attention.”

“I don’t think Granddad will appreciate us just dumping her at the hospital, people will ask questions.” The tall man with the dark hair paces back and forth with long slow strides before pausing to stare at the destroyed car, “holy shit.”

“What’s your name?” the fat lawyer asks, he nips his lower lip when Olivia pinches her mouth shut against niceties, “poor girl, do you live around here?” he asks then pouts when the taller man snorts at the idea and pulls a face at him. The little man clear's his throat and looks to her with sympathetic, rebellious eyes, “we should take her into my lab, I have ointments and bandages.”

“Dylan, you propose we drag a teenage girl into a shed behind the house? I’ll just take her to the bus station or something.” 

“And you think that will look any better? Christ, Alasdair, have some common sense. We can get her cleaned up and try and contact a guardian. Maybe her mum or dad live nearby. Might be nice to meet one of our neighbours.”

Olivia clenches her hand, it’s more painful than expected, but it helps her remember where she’s heard those names before, two of the grandsons; one of whom was charged with ‘taking care’ of her. She edges backwards, shuffling on her rear as both men continue their discussion. When she's got enough distance she gets to her feet and bolts. Bellowing voices follow as her feet stamp up gravel and stones then her steps grow spongey when she hits the lawn, which was perfectly level before her boots kicked great divots out of it. She swerves into a flowerbed and hops over a decorative wall, tripping when her toe catches, her arms flail in pinwheels and keep her upright. From the corner of her vision, she can see she's being pursued and pushes onwards into the trees. 

Brief seconds seem to last until she's pushed through skin scratching branches and ankle twisting holes and roots, running into a wall that looms dark and tall, impossible to climb or dig under. It seems to be inhabited by millions of invisible spiders that have spun a massive web. She strikes the surface of the wall with her right hand, causing a crack in its white plaster but nothing more. Her mouth runs dry. This wasn't the plan. 

Crunching mulch tells her time is up, Alasdair Kirkland steps out from the shadows of two trees, his expression reads of exasperation and the shadows make his muscular build seem huge and imposing. With stiff movements she steps forwards, feeling those invisible spider webs falling away. Feigning confidence she raises her fists into a guarded boxers stance, feet following and breath softening. 

The sight makes Alasdair snort with laughter, “really?” he brushes a leaf off his shoulder, “right, give me your best shot. I think I can take it,” he steps towards her; arms stretching out invitingly, “hit me as hard as you can so we can get rid of you.”

Olivia flinches away from him at first, but after a moments stillness she gets closer, eyes skimming his entire body then his face, which has a smirk Cut into one upward curl of his mouth. Olivia draws in a long breath which shudders all the way into her lungs and out again. She draws back her fist and feels a surge of energy, like steam, pulse down her arm. 

She hits him.

 

* * *

 

Romano believes his work should feel a great deal more important than it does, he takes a look around his office and loosens his tie so that he can enjoy the coffee he’s planning on pouring down his throat in the next five minutes. He pours a steaming mug of it from the coffee maker and rubs his thumb against a smudge on the massive window that overlooks London’s grey and rainy landscape. It’s not exactly an attractive place, regardless of his sister's optimism or his grandmother's affirmations that business here is good. 

Romano’s great, great, great grandmother supposedly founded the Hench company back in the days when crime was less organised, when men hadn't realised the potential in hired thugs, while the current set up had arrived with the Super explosion of the mid-eighties, when powers were on the rise and every pasty rich white businessman believed that being super was an unfair advantage and that making it more difficult for them to find work was a perfectly reasonable idea. Grandmother (rest in peace) had welcomed their legislation because it means that now every superpowered idiot in Europe who is unable to avoid diagnosis is embraced heroism or villainy, and there’s only room for so many heroes. It’s dangerous work and people tend to blame you for all the property damage when a fights over. 

Most supers prefer the comforting blanket of routine and the facade of normality as much as anyone else. All of this means that Romano works in one of the highest positions of the worlds most successful job centre for the normality challenged. There is a downside, however, and Romano is instantly reminded of it when he answers his ringing phone. He breaks into a cold sweat and tightens his tie before telling his secretary to put Kirkland on the line. 

“Ah, Romano, how’s business these days?” the old man, likely knowing the answer doesn’t wait for a response, “I need a favour.”

“Of course, _anything_ for an old family friend,” which is a polite way of referring to the man who has invested good chunk money into a business that functions only to supply the dastardly of mind with whatever level of human war machine meets their paygrade. Kirkland, however, makes most of that money back from them, at the very least, and on top of that, they give him access to the very best supers. It’s simply easier to stay in bed with a man like that, so mother says through clenched teeth.

“I had a bit of a break in, nothing too severe. Need you to pick me out a security guard. Powerful but easy to kill. Think you can find someone for me?” it doesn't sound much like a question, more of a polite demand.

“I have a few files on standby. Will I mail you a few and let you decide?”

“Pick one. Doesn’t really matter, just need my boys to realise how replaceable they are.” He chuckles into the mouthpiece, sounds sickly.

“I’ll email you the details and send somebody over, I’ll need a day or two to sort it out though.” 

“Good lad, while you’re on the line I must ask you to send your mother my greetings. Is she well?” 

“She—”

“Good to hear. Don’t fuck it up.” 

The line goes dead and Romano becomes aware of how dry his mouth; gulps down his coffee and swears at London as he puts the phone back on its receiver. 

When he’s worked up the courage he rummages through his filing cabinet of supers too valuable for a run of the mill thug work, but not dangerous enough for Mother to get involved. He selects five files but discards four immediately. 

Considering the disrespect his mother was just given, Kirkland deserves (and potentially desires) a troublemaker, and Romano has just the troublemaker for the job.

 

* * *

 

Olivia thinks she's killed him, she hadn't expected to hit him that hard. Her body is frozen in place with arm outstretched and growing into a pulsing numbness that's on the edge of pain and threatening to topple over into its territory. Hitting him with her left hand is likely the cause, she decides, nobody ever expects to get punched by the left fist so they don't guard properly. She exhales with a toothy whistle and begins a tense walk through the trees. Small bushes and rocks have been torn asunder; a few large trees have lost a branch or two and there's a long dirty skid mark with Alasdair Kirkland's body acting as the full stop. Killed him. Acid hurdles into her throat and threatens to make her vomit. It's only when the corpse's fingers twitch and his voice groans in pain that she's able to swallow that horrid taste. She had asked Daddy once what killing another person was like and he'd never replied properly. Killing somebody was less fun than in a videogame, even if it wasn't really real. Sighing with relief will have to wait though, Alasdair pushes himself up to his feet and clutches his stomach with one hand. His fingers tighten on the soiled fabric, his eyes seek her out. They narrow. 

A sound like a wave crashing on a faraway beach makes Olivia strain to hear, it's only when Alasdair shoots forward does she realise it's him; growling. His fish swipes past her ear as she turns aside without thinking; back striking a large tree. 

Alasdair pivots with a fist at the ready so she slides hard onto her backside as his fist connects where her face had been. A sound of flesh striking wood then a loud hiss of pain. He stands motionless, eyes glazed and expression distant but for two brows rutted downwards in fury that turns in her direction, a set of large fingers grab her skirt, tearing the collar as she's slung sidelong onto the grass, swaying to stay upright. Her bid for freedom cut short when that hand latches onto her shoulder and spins her. 

Her skull is about to get caved in when she hears the tree collapsing, then the wheezing voice of the second brother; she's forgotten his name, she realises, and it makes her laugh merrily. The tree continues to groan and creak and never hit the ground. From the corner of her eye, she sees brown lawyer man held out a hand at arm's length then clutch his hand into a bulbous fist. 

Branches from the tree engulf Alasdair's upper arm and hold it tight against the effort he's making to hit her, his arm is shaking with unspent energy. He let's go of her to fight off the sudden aggressor. There's no room to be spooked, Olivia takes a few steps away, seeing the trees form perched atop its roots, which squirm and writhe to hold it upright. Pausing was a mistake, the monstrous tree loops a branch around to twist gently around her waist, plucking her off the ground. Her feet swing in rebellion; which gets her hoisted a little higher. 

"Now that I have your attention, perhaps we can talk like actual people?" Brown trouser man has both hands held at awkward angles, his face is red and sweaty, "Alasdair, calm down. You always get like this, even in the smallest of fights. Being in charge of security means staying calm. We've talked about this." 

Getting a scolding from his brother makes the rage in Alasdair fade, he shakes his head and makes several soft affirmations that he's fine until the branches loosen their grip and he rips it free. 

"Sorry, Dylan, not sure what happened." The tall man shoos at his brother, who carries on clucking like a hen over the fresh cuts and scratches that pox the larger man's skin, "on a positive note, I am now pretty sure she is the one who totalled Arthur's stupid car, " he points at the trench his flying body carved into the earth. 

"Supers are getting younger every day. Must be something they're eating," Dylan laughs, it's high pitched and squeaky, "listen, whoever you are, I'll let you down if you promise not to run off again. I have a medical lab nearby. You need to get your wounds tended and we can't let you out of here with severe chemical burns."

"What about me, I think she's broken my ribs."

"Ribs heal on their own." Dylan frowns, "We promise we won't hurt you." 

Olivia struggles hard against the tight grasp of the tree, but she's starting to feel every tiny scratch on her skin, "fine, I'm too tired to run anyway." 

Dylan's arm lowers and his fingers uncurl gently, the tree follows his motions and sets her down, it catches her weight when her ankle twinges. As soon as she's standing on her own the roots of the plant raise like the legs of a deformed spider and drag its massive weight back into the treeline where they bury themselves and vanish to the soundtrack of heaving wood, crumbling earth and frightened birds fleeing from the invasion of their treetop homes.

"You're a super?" 

"Me?" Dylan smiles broadly and leans forward, hands on knees as though talking to a toddler, " not exactly. It's a sort of magic, not the point right now. More important to get your cuts treated and sorting all this out. Come on, this way." Dylan strides off he wobbles like a creme caramel when he moves. 

Alasdair takes a tight hold of her arm and tugs her along, eventually reaching a building that looks like a cottage, with its own little garden spreading out around it as though the building is leaking flowers, overgrown shrubs and winter fruits. It's far too serene, resembling some location from a Miss Marple episode than a villains hideaway. 

She's stepped inside before realising what a bad idea it was, but she can hear a kettle being put on and mugs being set out and the idea of a sit down makes her sleepy. This isn't how a hero acts. Daddy would be angry with her for losing so easily.

 

* * *

 

The sound of an email arriving blots out the sound of heavy traffic for a second. A man with two missing fingers raises his phone to his face and strains to read it. His lips broadened into a grin. About time Romano gave him some real work. His injuries have healed into scars and he's more than happy to get a few more.


End file.
